


Bittendes Kind (Op.15 No.4)

by richmahogany



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richmahogany/pseuds/richmahogany
Summary: James Hathaway visits an old friend. But really this is my take on some aspects of James' past.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46





	Bittendes Kind (Op.15 No.4)

**Author's Note:**

> The Implied Child Abuse is nothing but a couple of vague references, nothing concrete is mentioned.

James Hathaway didn’t usually read the Oxford Mail. It was pure coincidence that he glanced at the opened paper while he waited for the kettle to boil. It was one of the "human interest" stories on the back pages, with the headline “Beloved Music Teacher Turns 90”. There was a picture of said music teacher, a stately-looking woman with white hair in a bun, wearing a beaded shawl. He recognised her without looking at the caption. Still, he picked up the paper and read. The article was only a couple of paragraphs, telling readers how Miss Mackintosh, after a long career as piano teacher at a private school, had retired to Oxford, where she still had given music lessons to underprivileged kids for years and was much beloved by those kids and their parents. Now blind and living in a retirement home, she was still remembered by her pupils, who had given a party in her honour and arranged her mention in the paper.

James looked at the face he had known so well. In his mind he was transported back into the huge room with the high ceiling, the creaking floorboards, the smell of dust and wood and wax, sunlight streaming through large windows. He could feel the bones of his backside on the hard wooden stool, the smooth, slightly worn keys which he had found hard to press down at first because this was a full-sized grand piano, gleaming black, with a sound that wrapped itself around you and then went straight to your heart.

He had come to the school at twelve years old, on a music scholarship, and he had been nervous about everything, but especially about what his piano teacher would be like. Looking back he sometimes wondered why he had persevered with the piano at all. After what happened during those piano lessons at Crevecoeur, it should have put him off playing forever. But something in the music was stronger that the fear, the guilt and all the other bad feelings, and he had kept on playing.  
Miss Mackintosh, the school’s piano teacher, turned out to be a large, warm-hearted, maternal woman, and an excellent pianist herself. If she was 90 now, she would have been over 70 even then. She had brought out the best in him on the piano, but more than that. She had become a friend to him, understood him when he was sad or upset, and she was there for him when he needed someone, not even to talk to, but just to be there. She had let him feel that she cared about him, and to have someone like that in his life had helped him more than he had realised at the time.

James pulled himself out of his reverie, poured the hot water over the teabags and carried the mugs back to the office. I should go and see her, he thought, I should tell her what she meant to me.

A few days later he was off work, so he went to a florist’s in the morning. Buying flowers was not something he was experienced in, so he enlisted the help of the shop assistant.  
“I need a bunch of flowers for a friend,” he explained, “the colours are not important, but they have to have a nice scent.”  
Luckily the shop assistant had known exactly what he meant, and he left the shop with a somewhat unorthodox combination of flowers, whose different notes combined perfectly to put one in mind of a fresh summer morning.

When he arrived at the retirement home and asked for Miss Mackintosh, he was told that she would probably be sitting on one of the benches in the garden right now. He went outside again to look for her. The garden was so large it could almost be called a park, with wide paths, trees and a walled garden with apple and pear trees. It was here that he found Miss Mackintosh sitting on a bench, basking in the sunshine. He stood in front of her for a second before he said:

“Hello, Miss Mackintosh.”

She turned towards him with smile.

“Who is it?”

“James Hathaway.”

She gave a small gasp of surprise.

“James! Oh my dear boy, come here!”

She stretched her hands out to him, and he put the flowers down before taking them. Her hands were warm, and he could feel the residual strength in her fingers – a pianist’s hands.

“Sit down, please. I’m so glad you’ve come. It’s been such a long time.”

“I brought you some flowers,” he said, letting go of her hands to pick up the bunch and hold it towards her face. She took it and inhaled the scent.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you. But please, sit down here next to me, I can’t stand people looming over me.”

He smiled and did as he was asked.

“You were such a little shrimp of a boy when you first came to me,” she said, “and then you started to grow, and you never stopped.”

“I did stop at some point, I can assure you.”

He took a deep breath. He had wanted to see her, but now that he was here, he didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t know you were in Oxford,” he said eventually.

“Oh, I came here when I left the school. I had friends here, and I have always liked Oxford. I didn’t know you were in Oxford either. I remember, you were in your last year when I left, weren’t you? You talked of going to university.”

“I did, but I went to Cambridge. I only came to Oxford when I was at the seminary.”

He surprised himself how easily that came out. It was a part of his life he only told very few people about.

“You are a priest?” she asked, not surprised or astonished, only with mild curiosity.

“No, I dropped out.”

“Ah.”

She seemed to think about what he had said. He had always valued the way in which she had just accepted him, without judgement or ridicule, and she was still the same.

“So what are you?”

“I’m a policeman.”

“Ah.”

She thought about that as well. Then suddenly she asked:

“Are you happy?”

Now it was his turn to think. He couldn’t fob her off with some platitude or lie, she would know immediately. He would have to answer her as honestly as he could.

“I’m not unhappy. I think that’s the most I can ask for.”

“Oh, James.”

Her hand searched for his, and he took it and held it.

“Well, I suppose ‘not unhappy’ is better than ‘not happy’. But you always stood in your own way, you know that?”

“I suppose. I can’t help it.”

“Do you still play?”

“No, I pretty much gave it up. I took up rowing at university, and that isn’t really compatible with being a pianist.”

“Were you serious about it? The rowing?”

“Well, we trained a lot. Are you disappointed I gave it up?”

“Everyone has to decide what they want to do. You were very talented, James, but whether you could have made a living as a pianist? I don’t know.”

“I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have. I still play music, though. I play guitar in a band.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. What sort of music do you play?”

“It’s difficult to explain. It’s a fusion of several different styles, which on paper sounds completely mad, but in practice it’s quite beautiful. Interesting, too. Our bassist knows a lot of musicians from all over the world, and when they come and visit him, they play with us. Last year we played with a Kantele player. And one of his friends plays the Puerto Rican Cuatro. Amazingly skilful, and what a sound! That was really interesting for me, how to combine what I play on the guitar with what he plays, you have to sort of weave it together.”

“I’m glad you still enjoy music, then. If you haven’t lost the joy of music, then I think I taught you well.”

“That was your gift to me,” he said quietly. “I’m not good at this, but I came here to thank you. I should have done so long ago, but yeah...I’m rubbish at this.”

He couldn’t go on, he had to collect his thoughts first. He found it hard to say these things, but he owed it to her. She deserved to know what she had meant to him.

She squeezed his hand slightly.

“You can smoke if you want to, I don’t mind.”

He laughed. Of course, she would have smelled the smoke on his clothes.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I will just now. I came here to say thank you for...for so much. You taught me so much more than just to play the piano. You showed me how to listen, how to appreciate music. It’s because of that I still love music today.”

He let go of her hand and took out a cigarette after all, but didn’t light it.

“You were a true friend to me. You were always there for me, and I knew I could trust you.”

“You took a long time to trust me,” she said gently. “I never knew what happened before you came to the school, but I knew something had happened to you. I could sense that you had been hurt and betrayed, and that frightened you and made you shut yourself off from everybody.”

He remembered how he had flinched when she put her hand on his shoulder, how he had clammed up whenever she stood behind him. She hadn’t told him off or asked him why, she simply positioned herself elsewhere and continued the lesson.

“I think I was quite mean to you sometimes. But you never punished me for it.”

“No, I couldn’t do that. You didn’t act out of malice, you were afraid and insecure. You tested my patience, I’ll admit that, but I did gain your trust in the end.”

“You never let me feel that I did something wrong. I learned to trust you, and you never let me down. And that is the best thing you could have given me.”

“Good. I’m glad I did.”

He finally lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“And now?” she asked. “Is there someone you trust in your life now?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ve got someone. I test his patience as well, I think, but he’s never let me down either. He says I’m an awkward sod, though.”

“Well, you are.”

He finished his cigarette when she said:

“Will you take me up to the house?”

“Of course.”

He picked up the flowers and helped her get up from the bench. Arm in arm they slowly made their way along the path towards the house.

“Do you record any of your music?” she asked.

“Yes, we sometimes do.”

“Can you put some on a CD, so I can listen to it? I would love to hear it, it sounds quite fascinating.”

“It’s very different from what you taught me.”

“I may be old, but I’m not old-fashioned, you know. I love to hear new music.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that Radiohead would be quite your style.”

“Maybe not, but I have a secret passion for Amy Winehouse.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yes, I’m forever being told to ‘turn it down’.”

He laughed. “Not so secret then, is it?”

“Oh, they haven’t a clue who she is.”

They had arrived at the entrance, and she asked:

“Will you come in for tea?”

“No, I think I should go. Thanks all the same.”

A staff member was already approaching to take her inside. He handed over the bunch of flowers but still held her hand.

“Will you come again?” she asked.

“Yes, I’ll bring you a CD with my music. Thank you, for everything.”

He kissed her hand and let it go, turned round and walked back towards the road where he had parked the car.

The staff member took her arm and led her back into the house.

“Who was that?” he asked, “One of your children?”

“Yes,” Miss Mackintosh replied, “one of mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bittendes Kind (Pleading Child) is one of Robert Schumann's Kinderszenen (Scenes from Childhood), his Opus 15. They are a staple of piano teaching, I played them myself, to no great acclaim.  
> The Kantele is regarded by Finns as their national musical instrument. It's a kind of zither which exists in several versions with differing numbers of strings.  
> The Puerto Rican Cuatro (not to be confused with the Venezuelan Cuatro) is a 10-stringed instrument related to the guitar - a "necked box lute" for all you organologists out there. I saw it first on Huey Morgan's BBC programme on Puerto Rican music recently and was blown away by the sound.


End file.
